


'hope' is the thing with feathers

by amatchforyourmadness



Series: always together (eternally apart) [3]
Category: Ladyhawke (1985), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ladyhawke Fusion, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, F/F, F/M, Good Friend Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Inspired by Ladyhawke (1985), Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, M/M, Mentioned Tissaia de Vries, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer of Vengerberg, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg-centric, Yennskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:07:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24066349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amatchforyourmadness/pseuds/amatchforyourmadness
Summary: It starts out of pity, the small kind things she does for a man who's suddenly been cursed to a half life. Now, she figures, she cannot withstand to see the spark to his eyes fade.(or how a curse makes for strange best friends)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Tissaia de Vries & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: always together (eternally apart) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653490
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	'hope' is the thing with feathers

**Author's Note:**

> me @ Netflix: they're best friends, bitch!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I find you in  
> sad songs,  
> the sound of rain,  
> sunsets.

**I.**

The first thing Yennefer ever attempts to give him is simple enough for a mage to give; meant for him to take before sunrise and manageable enough that she can offer his bird self before sunset.

It's purely offered out of pity, if not slightly for her own convenience.

It has nothing to do with the fact that there are only so many times she can stand to hear a man she has been somewhat familiar with — whose songs she heard sung in every bloody corner of the continent, whom she saved years ago when the djinn took it’s hold on his throat, that she had seen tell jokes and smile and shine and amuse Geralt and that is now so faded, inching deeper into himself with confusion and fear and a resigned sadness — scream through the breaking of his bones and the twisting of his being night after night before a sorceress takes pity on the bastard and sets to see to something.

Truth be told, her resources were slightly limited. They had only been on a two-week-long walk away from the mountain, and while Geralt brushed the fact he had been a wolf a minute before and was now a naked witcher off with surprising easiness, dressing and setting them on their way on the road again, Jaskier was human and did not share his resilience. Countless times, Yennefer had pretended not to hear the soft crying, muffled sobs shaking his shoulders as he laid on his side on the ground, heaving in laboured breaths before he could convince himself to stand.

Shecould not deal with that, it was going to drive her crazy.

Soadd her nerves to the fact she had to walk by day with a man who thought grunting was the best form of communication when not directed to his horse and spend the night with a melancholic bard that pretended he wasn’t melancholic after sobbing his eyes out to the matter that they had barely stayed in the last city long enough for her to buy ingredients with which she could do _something_ _useful_ , that she had not had a bath in heavens knew how long and that they could not rent a room in any inns because while the innkeepers could excuse a falcon, they could not excuse a _falcon_ that turned into a _man_ and they surely couldn’t excuse a _witcher_ that turned into a _wolf_ and the bloody screaming did not help.

What the mage comes up with though (because resources and situation be _damned_ , she was Yennefer of Vengerberg and she could do anything she wanted) is a milky-grey potion in a blue vial that smells of blueberries and freshly-brewed tea, even if it likely tastes like selkiemore guts (considering ‘it smells like it’ as per Geralt's eloquent input) that would make him sleep through the transformation, therefore be free of pain.

To her offended surprise he declines it with only a lifeless stare and polite flattery.

It makes her feel stupid. Holding the blue vial she spent the better part of last week on, outstretched for the taking, hoping for a grateful reaction and a better sunrise. She does not enjoy being made to feel stupid.

Yennefer tries her best to rule over her spiteful nature, but the bubbling anger and corrosive bitterness are already brewing on the depths of her stomach, like thunderstorms waiting for her to give them a voice, and she hasn’t enough ground to pace the anger away and she has not enough strength to keep it to herself, so she pours her venom like a better woman would pour a cup of wine.

“I did not take you for a masochist.” She replies nevertheless, dry and cold to cover up her scorned good intentions, her hand vanishing the vial up her sleeve and her arm vanishing under her cape as she shuffled to the other side of the fire. “Though I’m sure this explains what sort of madness drew you to be a Witcher’s companion.”

Across the flames, she catches glimpse of Jaskier’s hollow face cave under as he allows himself one tired, almost not there smile that would have fit Geralt like a glove, but that seems unnatural on the bard who was always so openly exaggerated, heart worn on his sleeve. There’s more to read over it, she’s sure, but her storm shadows it, her waves spurn the feelings he so reluctantly displays and her wind howls over any sympathy.

“Don’t take it to heart, my dear witch. I know you meant well — or as well as you can mean — and I'm sorry I can’t accept your hard work.” He says, and he sounds apologetic enough for her to lighten her scowl ever so slightly, and glance up openly at him, even though his gaze remains downcast and his shoulders remain slumped down. “But I’m afraid that without the pain, I don't get to marvel that I'm alive after. With your potion, I would never know if I'm truly living or just dreaming inside of a falcon's head.” He explains, plucking chords from his lute with calloused fingers.

There’s a haunted note to his voice as the words leave him, and he seems to sink into himself. In the half light, his eyes are ocean blue instead of the sky tone she’s used to. She imagines for a moment him sinking to the bottom of it, instead of soaring to cut the clouds with his wings.

If Yennefer was a better woman, she'd let that be that. She'd read through the slivers of pain he still allowed her to see, consciously or not, and drop the matter, wait for the sunrise. Let the falcon and the day wash away memory of the argument.

Instead, she pokes the wound with a emblazoned stick, killing the subject and dealing even more damage while at it.

“So you rely on pain to know you're alive, and you take offense when I call you a masochist?”

That seemed to finally struck a chord that was not of sadness nor resignation, and his back straightens with a wounded sort of pridefulness that makes his smile just slightly too sharp.

“I do not take pleasure in it, even if I've chosen to take meaning. I have to make due with what your little mage friend has left me.” He says, sweet as honey with an underlying of poison and cold steel. If she knew him less, she might have been intimidated. “Don’t worry, I’ll go deeper into the woods so the screams don’t bother you.” 

She nods, thoughtfully and respects his choice as much as she’s deeply unsettled by it. The waves are still lapping at her stomach, and there is still thunder rumbling through her guts, but it’s not as much of a storm as it’s a bad feeling; A suspended wait for the next sentence to drop, something to rub on her face, how she dares to be this offended over a denial while he holds himself together by the seams at all the undead hours he lives between sunset and sunrise, but the sentence never comes, and so the lump to her throat remains lodged in there.

Later, when the dawning sun begins the process again and a half-human, half-wolf Geralt crawls his way out of the woods and into their camp, Jaskier screams echo their way through the trees back to her, even deep into the woods as he is. It's a deeply scared sound,that rises with anger and defiance after every wail of pain. She can't help but be reminded of a hunchback girl on Aretuza that refused to wait for the herbs and burned awake as fire and magic changed her body at the price of a womb she’d never regrow.

**II.**

“What the fuck?!” Rings the shrill scream of a scrambling Jaskier, making quick though wobbly work on his knees and hands dragging himself away from the combat she is stuck in now that brilliant Geralt miscalculated the hours he had left and turned into a wolf halfway through slaying the beast. _“Oh, what the fuck?!_ ** _What the fuck is that?!_** ”

“Take a wild guess, Jaskier!”

Yennefer growled dangerously, directing a ball of concentrated fire against the creature. The Leshy is certainly not pleased, but considering she has a frightened and naked bard behind her that sounds halfway too traumatized to properly wrap himself around Geralt's cloak, she would wager she's deadlier and say more pissed.

“I don't fucking now, a deadly deer spirit?!” he screams back, pulling the cloak from Roach's saddle with shaky fingers and trying to work the clasp around his shoulders without being hindered by the trembling. “Geralt being a wolf by night is bullshit, all the most dangerous monsters come at night!”

Yes, she has told him as much, yet he's as prideful and tough headed as he's stupid and grim when it came to social interactions, so she does not know what she had been hoping would come from this.

“It's almost as if the person who cursed you did not have your convenience in mind!”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?!” He yells, tugging Roach with him to further away from the combat, and Yennefer finds herself wondering either he's arguing with her or with the mare. “Hit them with my lute?!”

“What about getting out of my way?!” She yells over her shoulders.

How on earth she manages the time and focus to argue with him while brushing through several spellcastings that seem to more or less do no damage to the monster in is beyond her, but she catches a glimpse of Jaskier finally doing as he was told, and pulling Roach to the side of the combat, picking his lute from where it's tied to her saddle.

It's all the distraction the monster needs to throw her on her back with a well aimed blow to her ribcage that robs her of air and sends spots of black into her vision.

Yennefer stumbles back, trying to put distance between them, but it's no use. She needs her hands up to cast a spell, even if it's her last, one that might damage it enough for even a brainless Witcher in wolf form to slay it after her untimely and utterly Geralt-faultic death. When her hands are twisted as claws and she raises them above her, ready to speak the spell into existence, there’s a heavy sound of a wood thumping before the beast falls. Behind it, stands a heaving Jaskier stands, with a broken lute in one hand and Roach's leads in the other.

She is quick to set fire to the carcass, and he and she both take the time to rest against the grass.

“Oh, well.” Jaskier says in awe and wonder, naked but for the too large cloak around him, branding a broken lute like a sword and with eyes wide as saucepans as he stare at the slain beast. ”I guess i could whack them with my lute.”

He heaves another couple laboured breaths before sitting down, a fair distance from the burning leshy corpse while Yennefer lays sprawled at the ground, exhausted. Still, with her eyes closed, she can feel the pout form on his lips as the noise of broken wood and plucking of too-loose cords. She knows what is coming, and she dreads it for foolishness, for the singing and for the exhaustion all in one, yet still she merely waits for him to make a move.

“Could you—”

“I’ll fix it if you shut up.”

Next morning, Geralt sees fit to give her an earful for not having waited for him to slay the beast, endangering Jaskier and herself in the process, but he's quick to hold his tongue after she gives him a reminder of how sharp hers is.

When Jaskier's call cuts the air, Geralt is standing by Roach while Yennefer stands on the other edge of the camp and they both raise their heads to meet the shape he cuts against the sky as he approaches them. Geralt is quick to raise his arm, upper arm ready for Jaskier to hold on — the closest to holding him the Witcher could manage and he had exhausted himself trying to find a way times enough — but the kestrel flies past him, over his head and with another short cry he lands on her shoulders, talons holding onto the fabric of her jacket as he settles his wings, getting comfortable on his spot.

Truly, even Roach seems confused by such a switch, staring at the bird with incredulity, as if expecting him to explain — which, granted, is stupid. What he _does_ do is gaze at Geralt, than the chestnut mare than at Yennefer herself, tilting his head to better look at her.

There's a spark of something human to the falcon eyes as it looks at her, beating his wings on her shoulder and puffing his feathers as if to stand up for his choice.

Geralt looks between her and Jaskier, brows furrowed and lips parted to ask a question that he never truly asks, looking as perplexed by the choice as she is.

Yennefer raises her hand hesitantly, before caressing his wing with one finger, and the small animal ruffles his feathers in a pleased manner, letting out a soft chirp at that. She can’t help but to smile in wonder, only to send a dirty glance at Geralt when he begins to (not so) quietly complain to Roach about bewitchments and curses and fuck all. Her fingers itch for a hex, nothing much, just something to shut him up, or maybe knock him out, but Jaskier nips her ear gently and she’s softly amused by him again.

“It’s _your_ witcher, I don’t know what you’re mad at _me_ for.” She mutters, even though she knows plenty well that Geralt can still hear her, as she hops onto the horse she'd bought a couple weeks back, snorting as the kestrel gives out a dismayed little sound that she takes as a sign he knows plenty well what a disaster he's tied to in this curse.

He does not leave her shoulder the whole day.

**III.**

The third thing was remarkably less magical than the first, less ridiculous than the second and still, somehow, it was given in even worse circumstances.

It’s one of the coldest nights she had ever seen, and they weren’t near city or inn or healer, and Jaskier had fallen ill.

Geralt had asked if she could not merely teleport them to a far away place, perhaps to the Lord’s home she had been planning to take them for two or three weeks now, but she could not risk upsetting the weak falcon anymore unless Geralt felt willing to risk his death; that had been the end of the discussion, as the witcher’s scarred hands flinched and longed to hold onto the kestrel Yennefer held to her chest.

They remained silently in each other’s company for the remaining hours of the day, on the newly found cave, with Geralt periodically facing the storm to gather them any sort of firewood he could find. When the time came, one she had a relative notion of where in the day it would fit but that Geralt knew as a gut feeling by now, he stood up one last time, stripped and stood on the edge of the cave's mouth, bowing over to his torture as Yennefer laid the falcon over the pile of furrs she had scraped together for this occasion.

It's not usual for Geralt to stay. The sun sets, his bard grows legs, he grows a tail, he leaves.That's how their routine goes.

Nevertheless, there they are, stuck in a cave, fire burning in-between them as the snowstorm howled outside, only slightly louder than the chattering of Jaskier's teeth, his skin paler than usual, with bluish lips and buried under a pile of thin blankets, with the white wolf curled against his back, head rested over his side. Golden and purple eyes watch as the bard lets his hand fall from the wolf's head, where it had been running through snow-like fur idly, shivering fingers reaching towards for the warmth of the flames.

Geralt bites gently — the most gentle she has ever seen him, in wolf or human form — at Jaskier’s sleeve, tugging back so he brings the bard’s hands away from the fire. The man snorts, turning to complain only to have the wolf lay his head over his torso and effectively pinning him in place, growling when the bard tries to wiggle out until he gives up and brings a hand to hold onto the white back.

“Well, someone is overprotective today…” He said, smiling groggily down at the cursed witcher, though his brows were furrowed in confusion and he was still sweating the fever off by the beads that accumulated between his brows, trying to pat him into a more agreeable mood before shooting the mage an accusing look. “Did you tell him I was going to die or something?”

Her lips twitch to a side, but she only raises her brow unimpressedly back at him.

“Perhaps.”

There is a gurgling sound that was meant to be a dramatic gasp befitting of the bard, but it all developed into a fit of coughs that shook his entire body and had her kneeled by his side and the white wolf hovering worriedly over him in a heartbeat. Despite all that, when it subsided, Jaskier’s brows were furrowed still and he pouted at her like a child who had just had a secret told after specific instruction not to; which—

"We agreed you were not going to do that.”

“You _asked_ me not to do that, I never agreed.” Yennefer replies, short and snappy, a brow raised and yet another unimpressed look fixed at him, even though she finds an inkling of comfort in the banter, hoping the needling would start soon. If he was strong enough to bicker with her, than the fever had not claimed him in what was most important, and she could focus in keeping his body alive if only he'd hold steadfast to his spirit. “Because it would be stupid and reckless and I have saved your life times enough for you to value it slightly.”

“Those are very valid points, and I'll be sure to ignore them.” He declares, raising his chin petulantly before going on to do just that, in the whiny tone one would expect only from children under the age of 12 and bards. ”He’s going to walk at one fourth of the speed now. We’ll be lucky if we get there before the seasons change.”

"I don't see why hurry.” Yennefer retorts, lips curling into a more open grin than usual and, gods, she can see how Geralt got used to this do fast. Talking to Jaskier came as naturally as breathing when they weren't offending each other over a petty dislike. “The seasons changing won't change the sun or the moon. And isn't your complaining the same?"

Another bark of wheezy laughter rises over them.

“You really are a bitch, aren't you?” He asks breathlessly, to which she replies with a hum of agreement, flicking his forehead with a self-satisfied grin.

“A bitch that will not let you talk her into not saving your life by being a little shit.”

“It was worth a shot.” Jaskier sighs in defeat, shifting in a way he can better hold onto his wolf for warmth.

Yennefer smiles again, averting her eyes to the ground before looking away from the bard to the mouth of the cave as the snow made the world white to the wind's erratic commands.

“I hated that sound when I was a child.” He says, so softly she could have missed the words over the wind, but nevertheless she's startled back into focus to him, curious brow arched, waiting for his next words. “I used to think it was the howling of a hungry monster, stalking the castle to smite me down.” Jaskier continues, in that same level, huffing softly down at Geralt, ruffling his fur. “Maybe I was just getting ready to your miserable howling when I refuse to look at you.”

If wolves could glare, Geralt was making a wonderful job on it.

“Castle?” She inquires in spite of herself.

“Back in Lettenhove.” He said, nostalgia and a guarded sadness mixing together in his tone until his voice in a way that rang with yearning and bitterness in equal amounts. ”You know, I _am_ a Viscount. I've told the both of you as much.”

“Oh.”

“How about you?” He says, nudging the side of her leg with his head tiredly.

“What about me?”

“What noble connections do you have?” He turned to his side now, blue eyes fixed on her purple ones, narrowed in a way as if to analyse her through her features. ”Your fine taste would suggest a Duke, but I doubt very much one of those would let their daughter be stolen. A bastard daughter, maybe?”

Yennefer can't help but snort a disbelieving laugh, looking once again at the cave's mouth, shaking her head again before she turns to him with a grin that's this side of too sharp.

“A bastard.” She agrees, letting the pleasure of being right glow into his eyes before cutting his win short. “From a farming woman on the outskirts of Vengerberg and an elf.”

He looks stupid, with eyes wide as plates and his mouth open in a perfect 'o', but not judgemental. She realizes that she was holding her breath to brace herself for his reaction, but whatever she had braced herself for was nowhere to be found in the mix of sympathy and wonder of Jaskier's expression. 

“I had no idea.”

“Nor did I, for the longest of time.” The mage reassures him, waving off the many apologies she can see him ready to develop. “Few people know about it, but I suppose Tissaia has known it the longest."

“Who is she?"

“The rectoress of Aretuza. She was my mentor, a long time ago.”

“I hear Aretuza is a terrible place.”

“It is.”

He nods silently, chewing on the information as if the confirmation had a foul taste, but still managing to hold her gaze.

“Was Tissaia a terrible woman?”

“No one can become a mage without being at least somewhat terrible. We learn not to judge with the years.” Yennefer replies, taking a few moments to wonder when did that old-woman-like wisdom come from. “But, in any case, it should mean something that she has earned my loyalty like she did.”

“Tell me about her?” He asks, small voice and eager hazed eyes leaving her no room to say 'no' without feeling terrible with herself.

And she finds herself easily stepping in line, to offer him yet another thing — a tale, _her_ tale — out of pity and kindness, while never managing to totally shake off the feeling that she's holding a double edged dagger. She can almost feel the prickling of the blade against her palm, as she speaks on and Jaskier watches, enraptured and in awe of what she finds herself capable to share, and it ought to make her bleed at some point.

**IV.**

“You're going to cut your neck if you go about it like that.” She comments, smiling as Jaskier groans in frustration, looking away from the river he had been bowed over and waving the sword awkwardly at her direction (in a way that has Yennefer thanking her good sense of keeping six feet away from him, or she would be short of a leg).

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?!” He asks and she makes the mistake to open her mouth to reply, only for him to keep ranting. She should have known it was rhetorical. “We don't have scissors! I can't just go to a barber in the middle of the night and go 'Hello, my good sir, how are you? I'm a cursed bard with no money and that stinks of piss and death and, yes, that's a wolf and that's a witch, but would you mind giving me a haircut for a song?' So, yes, cutting with a sword is how it's going to be! ”

“There are easier ways to die, it's all I'm saying. Cleaner ways too."

“I refuse to walk into that town tomorrow looking like a savage! You go with Geralt then, I won't do it.”

He says, throwing the steel sword to the ground in a way that would have Geralt's hands itching to strangle a person, before crossing his arms, pouting and sitting in the grass by the riverbank, face turned to the ground.

She sighs

“Did you consider asking for help?"

To that he snorts, looking at her in that bitterly amused but distrusting way he seems to look at everything these days.

"From you?"

The scepticism doesn't land well with her, and soon enough, like flames poked back to life she feels the heat of her ruthlessness when she answers:

"Well, who else do you got?"

It's the wrong thing to say, she knows it the moment she says it. It sits heavy in-between them and he looks away almost immediately, but she doesn't yield an inch of ground, determined to see things through even if she doesn't have the ideal amount of tact.

"Would you?" He finally mumbles.

"What?"

"Would you please cut my hair?"

As always, it's not what she expected for him to say. But when did Jaskier ever do as expected?

"Of course. But I'm using a dagger to do that, because, you know, I think things through.”

He sits by the water and she goes to her pack, to pick her dagger and an old shawl she lays over his shoulders so the hairs won't stick to the only change of clothes he has and begins her work. It involves too much attention to him for her not to think things like his hair is soft, and amidst the brown there are a few almost-auburn strands, no doubt lightened by so much exposure to the sun. He breathes irregularly, it takes about three seconds too long after he has exhaled for him to inhale again, and he picks the skin off his thumb when he's insecure or anxious, like now.

Above all else, he trusts her a lot of he lets her have a blade this close to his neck. She's almost honoured.

There is a very long silence after its done before he says:

“I'm sorry. I'm being stupid.”

And she replies, kneeled by the river bank, washing the hair away from her blade:

“I won't deny that, but what for?”

“I'm worried about what I'll look like… What people will think of me. As if anyone will even see me.”

He sniffles out a laugh, or, maybe, he laughs a small cry, but she cannot tell it apart any longer. It worries her, even if she won't admit it, but she doesn't need to acknowledge it outloud for Jaskier to know. Years of traveling with Geralt have made him unfortunately good at picking up at those things, so he only shakes his head and smiles weakly.

“I'll just walk a little, clear my head.” He states, nodding to himself as if he had a reasonable idea, standing up and brushing off the dirt from his pants, before reaching for Geralt's old cloak to wrap around his shoulders. As he clasps the straps of it in front of his throat, his body drowning under the dark fabric, he gives her something that she would be more than merely generous to call a smile as he says: “Thank you.”

She nods and Jaskier turns, sad eyes and weak smile hidden under the hood of the black cape, walking amidst the trees to deeper into the woods, disappearing amidst the darkness of the night but for the flash of his pale hand holding onto the white wolf's fur.

He doesn't return for the night.

**V.**

What she offers him next awakes that delighted fire in his eyes that Yennefer appreciated more and more by the day, and his hand comes to his chest as if to still a quickening of pulse, face twisted into the picture of yearning itself.

“Oh, I miss court celebrations with all my heart.” Jaskier says, and sighs dreamily, as if the mere act of closing his eyes could get him to relieve all the grandure of nights he had spent singing ballads to lords and ladies and being watched, but when he opens his eyes they are dismayed. "But wouldn't it be dangerous?” Yennefer finds herself displeased when the excitement and hopefulness are wiped out from his face, replaced by a weary resignation as he directs his gaze at his hands on his lap sadly, pointedly avoiding the wolf laid near his chair. “There are people looking for me and Geralt, are they not?"

The mage takes large steps towards the man, sitting by his side in a way that has him already looking at her accusingly, as if expecting her to manipulate him into agreeing. Which is quite rude, but also is exactly what she's going to do, so he should know her less.

“We'll never come back here again— well, _you,_ at the very least — but I'll not return in their lifetime, so there's no harm.” She persuades him, soft voice, sweet tone, hand on his arm and friendly smile. He pouts at her, reading the combo for what it was. "And if all goes wrong I'll portal us away, very far away. As far away as you'll have me take us!"

“Back home?” He says, brow arched and finger holding onto the chair's arms as if he's starting to consider it, but wants to be well assured of a escape plan.

Nevertheless the word leaves her heart rather tender and her defenses against him, paper-thin at best, threatening to collapse to the ground at how easily he called this place, this house that she does not own, that she shared with him mere weeks, that they will spend whole nights chattering away over embarrassing stories of Geralt's life sat on the reading room's floor, curled by the fireplace, 'home'.

“Back home.” She promises.

It's not all for him, anyways. She's very bored. She'd like a distraction, and if the party is to be boring she can at least count on the bard to make a spectacle of himself if nothing else, if only she manages to talk him into accompanying her.

It's not all for him, but she needs to shower him in doublets and clothes of the best quality, of the newest and most popular fashion trends. She cannot be seen with a bard dressed with clothes from two years ago, no better how well taken care of they are, by Jaskier's fussing and Geralt's care and a few charms of her own.

If Jaskier is delighted at the feel of silk and the brightness of the colour, it's of no consequence. When he strokes the feathers details etched on the patterns of his clothes, gracing along the line of his arms, like wings, and looks at her, tearful and grateful, Yennefer tells herself it means nothing.

She leaves him for a moment, to dress into the outfit she's set for him and Yennefer only returns when she herself is dressed in a black dress that leaves her shoulders exposed, and the sleeves that start under her collarbone are adorned with blue-greenish feathers, before cascading down into a shade of black so pure that there are blue undertones to it, glowing under the room's light. When Jaskier looks at her, hair cut by her and outfit picked by her and that spark of life in his eyes carefully looked after by her, he starts crying and she does panic a fair share until she figures it's from happiness.

After sidestepping wolf Geralt for the fourteenth time, the witch takes him to the party with a stern talking down over getting emotional over ornamental feathers of all things, but Yennefer still sticks close and gives another hundred warnings and advises that he takes in stride before accusing her of being a mother hen. For that alone, she threatens to hex him back home even though she's crossing the party's threshold by now.

And the night goes like this: they drink and dance and gossip and eat. They hop from partner to partner, flirt, kiss, rescue each other from particularly boring conversations when picking on the others' distress and live life as if there was no curse and they had done this a thousand times before. Halfway through the night, they're both leaning on each other, arms laced together, as they trade whispered silly rumours and unkind observations of other attendees.

She finds herself giggling more than once, covering her mouth and turning to lean against his chest while he snickers into her hair, lips brushing the top of her head as his other hand comes to lay over hers, the tides of humour wash over them.

He tugs her with him, away from the small dozen of curious eyes they have attracted in the corner they occupy, and into the center of attention, the empty space in the center of the room while the band sets a new rhythm — they dance again then, this time as each others' partner: silk and decorative feathers brushing together in a display of colors, wealth and courtly fashion as they spin around each other's, hands brushing, skirts skimming against the floor, switching partners, hands trading contact with others until they stand back in front of each other again, breathless and flushed and with eyes gleaming with giddy happiness.

He lets his head tilt back, exposes his neck as if he's not afraid anyone could strike vulnerable skin, and lets out a hearty laugh that carries the call of a kestrel as it cuts the air. It’s only natural, she supposes, thinking over their interactions as much as the alcohol and her own laughter allow her to. He’s been a bird of prey for half a day for a hundred odd days, and it’s foolish to think he would not let that predator-like wild nature in, not with the feral hints to his personality she had seen since the beginning, since before.

Then it happens; he lets his head back down, his face turns towards her again and she can see the falcon on his eyes, amidst all that makes him so insufferably Jaskier, but it's a happy sharp glimmer that speaks of survival and bouts of joy to be found through bones and curses and the worst the world can throw at him.

Above all else, he is _smiling._ It's the first true smile he gives in all the days she has spent with him, all the hundred odd days since the mountain. It bends his face into an open and delighted expression, all soft flesh and sharpness of spirit, lighting his eyes and his entire being and somehow inching its way to her until she’s smiling back, holding onto one another as the music around them ceases and the dance find itself an end, her skirt brushing against his leg, feathery decoration brushing feathery decoration.

Those are the things she decides she can not go so long without, and neither should Jaskier.

**VI.**

They had stumbled their way up the hill after leaving the party, some time around four in the morning, leaning into each other as the ground under their feet swayed and the world around them spun, until gravity had proven herself a much admirable foe and they had ended tripping and falling down on their asses on the grassed hill, a mere 15 steps away from the door of Yennefer’s borrowed mansion.

Jaskier had dug his fingers on the wet soil as if the earth could escape from under him while Yennefer frantically had indicated him to be silent before a wolf’s howl carried over them, much like a dog whining, and their gaze was directed to the white wolf with golden eyes perched on the window by the door, as if expecting his owner’s to come back and fell into hysterical laughter.

“Promise me” He says slowly, tongue addled by one too many glasses of wine as they give up their efforts to walk up to the house, making peace with laying back against the green grass wet with dew, eyes drawn up to the sky to stare at the retreating darkness of the night.

Jaskier's eyes are half closed, but he fights sleep and exhaustion with his doublet half open and his fine shoes kicked away, so his feet may rest from the night-long’s dancing upon a bed of yellowish wildflowers; he is close enough that she can breathe in the smell of his favoured wine he exhales over the freshness of the night, and she turns to find he has a finger outstretched towards her, either for him to look stern or for her to hold onto when sealing the promise. It’s all so absurdly Jaskier that the warmth of fondness grows over her once more and she cannot help but to hold onto it.

“Promise me you’re not going to get bored of me when I’m no longer a cursed… I don’t know, a cursed eccentricity you can drag to parties.”

The words break her heart and dim her smile in equal measure, because she knows he meant it.

She thought she had been clear, she thought it was an evident thing, that he had wormed his way into her heart much like he had done to Geralt, and made himself essential there. To call him a friend would be too little but there were no words she knew of, in none of the tongues she heard of, that could make justice to what he meant for her, so she had to settle for friend less she fancied explaining to him how long she had debated over the matter.

Slowly, she stretches her hand to hold his. Her hands are not soft and they are not the hands many would expect from a woman that looks like her, dresses like her.

Even before Aretuza, before Tissaia, before the breaking and painfully slow rebuilding of the very fabric of her person, her hands were not idle, they had always found or been thrusted work to be done around the farm, around the house, anywhere that would keep them far from sight and far from mind.

A sorceress work was not idle either, the potions and the spells and the lightning and the late night lessons Tissaia would force on her, her adventures, her ventures on court and off court, it all was marked on the rough to some of the parts of her palm, as well as her sufferings were carved into the scars to her wrists.

Despite being a Viscount, Jaskier’s hands are not soft either, and she feels his calloused fingertips brush against hers before he holds onto her hand as if he has never done so before, and she can feel the roughness of the places where he holds his lute, the lumps that were formed to better nestle the small blades he hides amidst his silk clothing, that he knew how to twist just right to gut a man in order to grant that he would live another day when Geralt was not around to safeguard him and even before he ever had been there.

“You are more than an eccentricity to me.” She tells him, in a voice so soft and so low, she is almost hoping he will not hear it, but he does. Because she is turned to him and he is turned to her, and purple eyes are looking back to blue ones and she needs him to know this, she needs him to never forget this, no matter what happens.

Yet, for whatever she may speak of Geralt, she cannot voice her feelings for the life of her. Maybe it’s just what they’re made of,m beings twisted by magic, maybe it’s just how they are, pushing people to an arm’s length out of safety, or perhaps it’s just what Jaskier is like, what he brings out on people. Shying from any greater declarations when the wine has loosened her tongue past the point of safety, she merely adds jokingly.

“You are also a headache. A welcomed one, granted, but still.”

“That’s the hangover coming.” He says in return, good humoredly, and it’s not hard at all to mirror the coy smile he gives her after she is done snickering at the comment.

“I promise, I will still drag you to parties when you don’t have feathers.” It’s a promise and an offer, but he only smiles.

“Oh, there’s no coming back from this, my darling, even when this curse nonsense is over with.” Jaskier says smooth as if he’s talking about the weather and not about the fact that every day, precisely at 6:06AM, he screams his lungs out, which means soon enough he’ll stop talking to her and will get lost in the pain that is to become a falcon. His hands brush the sleeves of his doublet, where she has had them decorated with feathery-like embroidery. “I’ll always be a creature of feathers.”

He smiles at her once again, and because she is a greedy creature she wishes for this night to last a while longer, that all nights are longer than days, so this warmth that the sun cannot rival won’t leave her alone as soon as the bard by her side is vanquished by the first rays of morning.

Still, the dawn rises over the dark world they inhabit while lute callused fingers are intertwined with hers, and she sees for a moment what her friend face looks when bathed in daylight, his eyes fluttering from her to the rising sun, before he valiantly tilts his head back to let out another booming laughter. The call of the kestrel in it is unmistakable, but so is the defiant note of Jaskier’s voice.

Against all reason, her spirits rise despite the sun, soaring well above along with Jaskier. It’s a hopeful feeling, she realises. The one he fills her with as he beats his wings and flies against the sun, singing and calling against it, as if to tempt the yellow fiery beast to break his spirit, and she hopes that, in the ways that matter, she can also be a creature of feathers.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this took forever, and that chapter 2 might take even longer, but you cannot understand how much I need this to be perfect.  
> They're soft and they're found family and they are best friends and I'm crying in the club tonight.


End file.
